


It's Okay.

by thtzwhatuthink



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: American biscuits and tea with ginger is involved, Angst-Free, Cuddling, Fluff, Hanzo has nightmares, Hanzo is NOT Sad Hanzo™, M/M, McCree is very good at warding off nightmares, McCree takes care of exhaustion riddled Hanzo, Sleepy McCree™, Snuggling, Tired Hanzo™, local cowboy exceptionally adept at calming people down, slow burn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 03:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thtzwhatuthink/pseuds/thtzwhatuthink
Summary: Hanzo returns from a week-long mission of no sleep, and he never makes it to his bed once back in base. He never knew how awful his quality of sleep was until McCree takes care of him.





	It's Okay.

Something truly "24.7" is exhausting.

One week of twenty-four-hour surveillance. Hanzo did not sleep beyond brief power naps which were less than a half hour. Even then, he had very few of those. The mission went strongly against old Overwatch protocols, but he joined with previous training that enabled him to do these kinds of missions. Now he was being useful in a way unique to everyone else. He thrived in his usefulness, in his own old-fashion skill; void of any detectable technology.

But his time of action was over. The toll of his endurance hit him as soon as he felt safe.

Maybe that’s why when Hanzo enters the base exhausted from the mission, he grasps Angela’s clipboard, posed to write in her arms, and quietly—pleadingly, requests to debrief tomorrow. Mission information is supposed to be given fresh as possible. It’s against protocol to sleep on it; memories are merely _recalls_ after all.

However, this isn’t legal Overwatch.

With that in mind, Angela grants his request with a slow sigh and soft smile.

The relief that floods his aching body does nothing to help his motivation in getting to his room. The subtle coolness of the base is lulling him to sleep as he stands. It’s at this point Hanzo realizes he would never make it to his room across the base. Not even close. So, he aims for the recreational room. There’s one large couch in mind that suddenly becomes desirable.

His feet are too heavy, and he doesn’t remember walking down the hallway to the shared space, but he finds himself under the doorway, and finally through it.

Pharah is making tea in the far corner of the room. Hanzo blinks to see Ana instead. He doesn’t dwell on the delusion. Shoulders slump more and more forward the closer the couch becomes.

His destination looked barren at a glance. A very sleepy-eyed glance. However, as he lays down, his upper half runs into something warm. With a pulse. His body is exhausted beyond the point of no return; there was no way in hell he could sit back up and find another place to sleep. Whoever’s legs he sprawled across were so soothingly warm. He’ll regret his decision whenever he may wake up, breathlessly murmuring,

“Forgive me, I can’t…”

His weak voice is hushed gently. “It’s okay.” Are the only words he hears before he’s out like a light.

Hanzo wakes up in a different position than he remembers. Same couch, however he’s not laying flat on his back or half way off the edge as expected. He’s cradled against someone’s chest. His legs are the only part not on the unfortunate soul who got stuck underneath him, rather they’re on the rest of the couch. Upon extra blinking and closer inspection, Hanzo comes eye to eye with neck stubble. An unkept beard. Eyes sliding up to find dipping cheeks and soft pink lips, slightly parted as a quiet snore comes to his attention.

A hat concealed the eyes, but Hanzo didn’t need to see anymore to know who was holding him.

McCree’s grip on his side was immovable, and explains why he’s not on the floor. There’s a half empty beer bottle on the side table next to them. Hanzo realizes he likely barged in on McCree’s hangout time, and passed out on top of him. Hanzo regrets choosing the couch to sleep on, for the sake of interrupting McCree’s night.

Another quiet snore intrudes his thoughts, and Hanzo realizes the least he could do is wait until McCree woke up on his own before moving. So, he settles his head gently as he could against McCree’s clavicle. The report he will have to give whenever Angela hunts him down today arranges itself in his head. Mindlessly, the focus from the report shifts to the scent of clean linen and cigarette smoke. A fading scent of musty pine lingered only on a small part of Jesse’s neck.

“He uses cologne.” Hanzo thinks, and he’s unsure if he finds the fact or the scent soothing. He breathes deeply, eyes closing in sync with his exhale. For now, the world is okay in this very spot. Pine scented, cozy spot.

When Hanzo wakes up for the second time, it’s to the sound of a voice heard through bone. His eyes remain closed, his breathing now deliberately slow. McCree awake and speaking, yet Hanzo was still sitting sideways on his lap, head still laying against his shoulder with face nestled into the nape of his neck.

“Lena, Darlin’, please talk quietly. He’s the worst case of exhaustion I’ve ever seen.”

There’s a pencil nearby scribbling audibly on hollow material. There’s a quiet request to bring him to the med-bay, Angela present. She likely wanted a debriefing, however health is her top priority. There’s a soft “No,” that reverberates in the chest he’s cradled against,

“He needs shut-eye, and he needs it some place comfy. That’s all.”

Angela asks if McCree would be vigilant over his condition instead of the med-bay. Hanzo feels him nod, but he doesn’t see the toothy grin of reassurance he sends to the doctor. When asked if Jesse needed anything he shakes his head slowly and shoos whoever in the room away.

Hanzo detects no other presence in the room, and then the hand on his back moves up to his hair. He doesn’t remember his hair being undone when he returned from the mission, however as fingers begin to stroke gently at his hair he doesn’t question it. Nimble fingers find their way to his scalp, and massage one area with a relaxing amount of pressure. There’s a tingling sensation at the front of his throat, the fuzzy feeling increasing as the light touch on his head gently pushes his head closer to Jesse’s neck. The sensation blooms through his chest.

His forehead is pressed against the side of McCree’s warm neck.

The other arm is under his slightly bent knees, and a mechanical hand tenderly pulls the rest of his body closer. McCree must have moved him into his lap at some point in the night. He slept surprisingly well; despite the exhaustion helping, there were no nightmares. How could there be when held so securely by a man who oozes sunshine and lives on rustic simplicities?

So when Hanzo finds the energy to “awaken” it’s merely a low and raspy, “Thank you, McCree.”

The hair petting stops, the secure hold on his body loosens immediately. Hanzo doesn’t bother to move, although clearly he’s given the necessary space to move away if he pleased. Instead he musters a heavy sigh, exhale slow and stress relieving. McCree’s body is still; his sight is dead set forward, not once looking down at Hanzo.

Into his neck Hanzo mumbles, “The first night in a long time that I slept without nightmares or medication.” In such proximity to his ear, McCree hears that just fine. The hand under his knees shifts to run his hand through his own hair, and to set his hat from the couch, back onto his head.

“I’ll be honest,” McCree’s voice is deeper than usual and quiet, “You had me real worried last night, but I’m glad you passed out on my lap…” he trails off only for a moment, “I did my best to make you comfortable and watch over ya.”

The statement is punctuated with a hug to Hanzo’s form. The archer was not able to wrap his arms around in return, and he probably would find himself awkward if he did so. Instead, he whispers another “thank you,” accent thick as his head weighs down heavier on McCree’s shoulder.

McCree asks if Hanzo had the strength to stand and walk.

Hanzo probably did, but he didn’t want to leave the comforts of the current situation.

The cuddling felt intimate, and it was so desperately needed after a draining mission. So, when he responds, “No” Hanzo expects the cowboy to nod understandingly and leave them be in the current situation. However, Hanzo finds the mechanical hand back under his legs and himself being lifted. There’s grunting from McCree, but other than that he found footing and lifted Hanzo up without falter.

“I need to hit the weights again, Jesus.” He grumbles. Hanzo chuckles.

McCree strides down to the living quarters, before making it three doors down the hallway and stopping. He curses, and readjusts his grip a little on Hanzo’s body before pivoting on his heel and calling out “Athena!”

The door they were standing next to opens.

“I’m too old for this, my room is closer than yours.”

His room smells faintly of sage and incense. Hanzo honestly expected it to smell like a lemon scented odor remover, however it’s pleasantly mystic. Hanzo finds himself at ease; the earthy and traditional tones of the room remind him of a sanctuary. A dark green comforter and mocha bedsheets of Egyptian cotton collide slowly with his back as McCree carefully sets him down.

The concerned look that hovered over his head briefly makes Hanzo feel important. He’s told to get as comfy as he would like, and asked if he needed anything. The second he politely declines, McCree nods once, smiles, and then zips off almost comically to the bathroom on the other side of the room.

Hanzo finds himself chuckling.

A wave of tiredness hits his body again. So, he rolls onto his side and sinks his head half way off the pillow. McCree’s cologne hits his nose again, and the smell does nothing but relax his tense muscles as sleep greets him once more.

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up it's by gentle taps on the shoulder. He smells the aroma of his favorite tea before he sees Jesse holding it, and his interest must have been written on his face because McCree chuckles and answers his unspoken question,

“I asked Genji what you liked. Come’on now sit up for me Darlin’, just to eat.”

Hanzo wordlessly complies, body heavy. His arms were sore. Once he is finally upright, he finds an old cafeteria tray on the bed. There’s a larger pot of tea, along with fruit and buttery American biscuits. The kind that comes refrigerated in a cardboard cylinder and require some assembly before eating. McCree made the effort to bake him something, and Hanzo finds a new form of gratuity and appreciation for the cowboy when he bites into buttery goodness.

The first bite makes him realize how desperate his body was for food.

The first sip of tea made his face warm, and it wasn’t from the heat.

“This is better than how I make it. What did you add?” Hanzo takes a longer sip, and a pause before questioning, “Ginger? _Fresh_ ginger?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, rather leans forward and lifts the teapot cap. Lo and behold, there’s several slices of thick cut ginger soaking at the bottom of the pot. He groans while leaning back to sit upright, which elicits an, “Easy now partner,” from McCree.

“Yes its fresh ginger, it always makes me feel better so I thought I would add it.” He continues.

Hanzo hums in response as he takes another sip. He follows McCree’s figure as he stands up, and grabs a clipboard and glasses from his desk before settling down on the edge of the bed. The clipboard is strikingly similar to Mercy’s.

McCree in a pair of spectacles makes him look older. Significantly wiser, as if he earned those reading glasses from long hours in a library. The look is alluring.

Hanzo peers down onto the report page McCree pens his name to the top of in wispy slanted cursive. Wordlessly, it comes to his understanding that McCree was given the duty to report. Without prompt Hanzo begins retelling everything of the mission, in order of what is asked on the sheet. McCree smiles and says nothing more as Hanzo guides himself through the debriefing; mentally noting that everyone must have the report sheet memorized.

He's grateful that Hanzo pauses after every sentence, allowing time to write while eating a biscuit or piece of fruit, and picks up his statements with perfect timing. McCree never loses track, nor does his hand ever stop until the whole document is complete.

“Thank ya, sugar. You’re free to eat and rest all ya want now.”

McCree also points out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt next to his pillow, offering a clean change of clothes. Hanzo nods gratefully, slipping off the upper portion of his mission gear and slipping on a burnt orange v-neck shirt. He grumbles about never wanting to lift his arms again and McCree chuckles.

“You can ask for help Hanzo, I don’t bite without permission.”

Hanzo glance shifts from tugging the shirt down to up at McCree, arching an eyebrow. He is unexpectedly smooth for someone who likes to be very bold in every aspect of his casual demeanor. But then again, maybe not. Within the past twenty-four hours Jesse has displayed a toned-down demeanor. Once past his personal space bubble, he’s careful and quiet.

Hanzo can’t help but crack a smile. Returning to the original statement, Hanzo shakes his head in response and stands up from the bed to strip off his pants, facing the wall. Unaware of the sneaking glances to his back muscles, but McCree can’t resist his question:

“Do you never wear underwear under your archer uniform?”

It dawns on Hanzo that no underwear is an unusual concept for McCree; his background coming to mind. He also realizes the man is or was staring at his ass just now. Hanzo stands a little straighter, thigh muscles flexing ever so slightly, but enough to make McCree bite his lip and inhale sharply. Eyes dart to his desk the second Hanzo looks over his shoulder, commenting:

“Usually, yes. Underwear has no place in a traditional outfit, and is another layer of clothing that can rustle. Not good for stealth.”

Once Hanzo slips on the shorts, he turns to fully face McCree, and settle back in bed. After a quiet request to pour another cup of tea, Hanzo eyes McCree over the rim of his cup.

“Why are you flushed?”

The cowboy furrows his brows, face getting redder. McCree stands up and heads over to a nearby mirror, pressing a hand to his red cheek before cursing. He chews on his bottom lip as he picks up the clipboard from the bed,

“I—I uhh… I only get red with sunburn an' oncoming sickness. I haven’t been outside lately—so, yeah. I’m gonna return this to Angela an' get a quick check up.”

McCree looked ready to bolt out the room, but his eyes pass over the food tray on the bed, and he’s swift to move that onto a side table. As soon as Hanzo stretches his legs out on the bed Jesse is halfway out the door.

Unusual behavior from Hanzo’s perspective.             

* * *

 

When McCree finally steps back into his room, Hanzo is snoring lightly. Sprawled out like a king in the center of McCree’s bed. Briefly the cowboy wonders how he’s going to sleep tonight, but the thought threatens his calm heartbeat so he shoves it away. “For later,” he tells himself. The mumble does not wake Hanzo.

Light sleeper McCree’s ass.

However, exhaustion sleep may be a little different from regular sleep, and this is kept in mind. It’s not long before the sun falls below the horizon, and McCree finds a stopping point in the book he’s been reading at his desk.

Hanzo doesn’t really wake up when he feels the covers move. In a sleepy stupor, he registers a dip in the mattress to the left of him. Nothing touched him, but he has half a mind to investigate. A hand lazily slides its way down the dip and meets warm skin. Comforting heat that is all too tempting to shimmy closer to.

To cuddle.

Ah, however Hanzo knows he shouldn’t. Self-control is his finest skill. He murmurs an apology, not quite in the right language but it’s the effort that matters. He hopes McCree can understand the tone as he pulls his hand back to himself. Hanzo shifts to give more space to the man in his own bed before lulling back into unconsciousness.

He wakes again in the dead of the night.

Feeling clammy he acknowledges himself in a cold sweat first, then the shaking. His hands are clenched, breathing uneven. The nightmare fades from him within each passing second but the feeling is so strongly present. The shaking does nothing but get worse, and he’s seconds from bolting upright and finding something to distract himself with.

Then an arm lays over his chest. That same arm pulls him across the bed, until his back hits skin significantly warmer than his own. The grip around his chest tightens, legs mold against the back of his.

“You’re safe, Darlin’. You’re at base, it’s 02:34 and I’m Jesse.” Whispered near his ear, informing him of his environment. Hanzo is thankful for the information, and takes a deep breath with a staggered exhale. McCree hums in approval and asks Hanzo to take another deep breath.

“Nothing will hurt you while with me. I’ll make sure.”

The tight hold around Hanzo squeezes gently. It’s calming. There’s a hand rubbing up and down his clothed sternum slowly in time with his deep breaths. Hanzo’s breath steadies after a couple more exhales, and he knows he should focus on his breathing more but he can’t. The hand over his heart and the forehead pressed to the back of his neck are all he can think about.

Nightmare forgotten entirely.

He finds himself breathing in time to the hand without thought, and when the hand stills there’s one last deep exhale. Stress melts off him in chunks. The hand soon moves to his shoulder, down his arm to his own hand. Hanzo’s forgotten about his clenched hands. Calloused fingers gingerly pry open his own. The word “relax” is heard quietly behind him. Fingers entwine.

“Grip my hand instead, don’t hurt yourself.” Jesse mumbles.

Hanzo presses the side of his face further into the pillow. His eyes squeeze shut tightly for a moment, and then he wills his face to relax. The wrinkles between his eyebrows cease. When he squeezes Jesse’s hand it’s not out of panic but of gratuity.

“Thank you, McCree. Yet again.” It’s a low murmur, but it’s heard clear as day.

“Call me Jesse, Sugar—and get some sleep.”

His name is a weightless word on Hanzo’s lips.

The echo of his own name makes McCree smile. Something about Hanzo’s voice and something about the placid tone made it feel right. This feeling of Hanzo in his arms also felt right; he was making a difference in the man’s life for the better. Even if it was only for a night or two.

As Hanzo’s breathing slows, McCree’s eyelids feel heavier and heavier. He squeezes the equally rough hand holding his own and falls asleep smiling, hoping tomorrow shows up slowly.

* * *

 

A week passes since Hanzo’s mission. Several days since he awoke in another man’s bed, cradled in McCree’s arms. Hanzo’s quality of sleep has dramatically decreased since returning to his lonesome room to sleep. Everything was normal once again, but slightly off.

Hanzo understood exactly what the off feeling was, but would never dare to confront the source in a right mind. Hell, not even a drunk mind.

However, waking up in the middle of the night one more time has him bolting upright. A distraction is desperately needed, something to occupy his mind until the feeling passes. Yet his feet tread right past any technology, book, and bow. The shower doesn’t appeal to him. Neither does food. No, he finds himself at the beginning of the barracks three doors down from the entrance.

He knocks ever so lightly on McCree’s door. It’s too late for Jesse to be up, and he knows that, yet he tries anyway. The door doesn’t open to a tired face, but unlocks with a soft _click_ as Athena lets him in. Hanzo doesn't question her decision or what Winston did to make an AI so merciful, rather he beelines straight for the bed. The lump in the covers jumps at the physical contact of someone collapsing onto his bed, and soon pressing against him.

“Han?” A groggy, concerned voice.

The nickname is new, yet Hanzo refrains from comment; merely nodding into the comforter. The second Jesse knows who it is he kicks off the covers, turns over to face Hanzo and opens his arms. The satisfaction Hanzo feels entering his embrace is surreal. The realization that McCree sleeps only in his briefs when alone is a guilty pleasure Hanzo shuffles away in his mind for another time.

The western man’s warmth is an addiction that quells Hanzo’s nightmare ridden life. The lean muscle that bulges in all the right places in the arms that surround Hanzo are reassuring of his safety. The special tone he uses oh so softly in the night to calm Hanzo is a gift. The chest Hanzo silently cries into holds a steady heartbeat that promises a better tomorrow night. The hand that tenderly strokes his hair can soothe the deepest of aches and heal the tension in Hanzo’s own hand.

He doesn’t remember what he ever did to handle himself when it was this bad before McCree, at least not right now.

Hanzo tells him all of this. In rushed Japanese between sobs, sharp inhales, and sniffles.

Not a peep from McCree through all of it, but the patterns he rubs on Hanzo’s head change; the pressure stronger and more soothing. When there is a long enough pause from Hanzo he repeats “It’s okay.” Together their bodies slowly rock, back and forth, back and forth; encouraged by McCree. A hand of his shifts to rub Hanzo's back, from his shoulder blade to the small of his back and repeating. The light touch leaves fleeting tingles in wake of his hand.

Hanzo gradually gains composure.

When Hanzo has enough of himself to thank McCree, he punctuates his statement with a featherlight kiss to his heart. He’s not sure if he wanted McCree to be aware of it or not. He opts to bury his head closer to the man and does nothing more.

Jesse notices.

They wake up together in the same position, just further entangled together. McCree woke first, but did not move. Hanzo shifts to see a sleepy smile; the sight makes his chest fuzzy. He finds himself smiling back despite the breakdown of last night.

“Forgive me for intruding on you last night,” Hanzo pauses to yawn, “I never knew how awful my quality of sleep was until I stopped falling asleep around you.”

“Hm? How come?”

Hanzo breaths deeply through his nostrils, stretching before scooching away from McCree and sitting up.

“You feel like how a home _should be_ , but in a person.” Hanzo thinks, but he merely shrugs in response.

“Should I expect you every night?”

Hanzo selfishly wishes yes, however knows better. He’s intruding on McCree’s life, and states this. Hanzo also tacks on,

“If I were to practically live in your room, I do not think it would send a message you would want to the rest of the Overwatch agents.”

McCree also stretches before propping himself up on his elbows. Without hesitation he comments, “I wouldn’t mind that message.”

Whatever thing Hanzo was idly staring at across the room instantly forgotten as his gaze flies over to Jesse. McCree was casually looking around too, until he senses someone looking at him. His head tilts to peer up at Hanzo’s slightly red face. That smile from earlier hits again, and it crinkles his eyes. Jesse huffs softly, a single laugh as if at himself. McCree then pulls Hanzo’s upper half back down to the bed.

He leans over just enough to place a gentle kiss over Hanzo’s heart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Down with the idea that feels reveals have to be concluded with a kiss on the lips. I think cuddling is a more subtle yet stronger intimacy, and I tried to portray that here.
> 
> Two weeks to write the first half and two hours to write the second half. Thanks brain! I deleted a couple parts to improve story progression, hopefully the mood is right! 
> 
> *finger guns* I have a less cuddly, more dancey-dancey fanfic on the way where D.va is simultaneously the worst gremlin and best wingwoman. Stay tuned.


End file.
